


Leaving

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Екатерина | Catherine (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 23:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: “Never forget your father,” he says, on a whim. “I know he didn’t…pay as much attention to you as he should have, but he loved you…very much.”





	Leaving

Peter’s funeral goes by in a strange, baffling blur. Brockdorff takes all of two days to pack up his life and prepare for travel. Golitsyn and Ungern-Sternberg come to him with condolences. Golitsyn – awkward and bewildered; Ungern-Sternberg – sober, dignified, failing, out of respect for Brockdorff’s grief, to mention that he will be staying in service to the new Empress. Brockdorff doesn’t have the energy to resent him. He doesn’t speak to anyone else. Someone mentions Saltykov is back and Brockdorff hopes for both their sakes that they don’t cross paths. 

The carriage is ready early on the third day, but Brockodrff takes his time with breakfast. Leaving feels like a part of him is dying, like ripping out a part of himself that had never really belonged to him, not since the day he met Peter. 

It doesn’t last and he’s about to climb into the carriage, almost does, when a burst of childish laughter stops him. So familiar it’s unmistaken. And the voice that answers that laughter, the voice of the boy’s tutor, Brockdorff knows too. 

He hadn’t even tried to see Paul. 

He tells himself it’s because they would have never let him. It might be because he’s a coward. 

_I don’t know how to face him._

The footsteps on the gravel behind him stop. “M. Brockdorff?”

Brockdorff freezes and sucks in a long breath. He isn’t anywhere near ready for this. 

Paul breaks away from Panin and runs to the carriage. “M. Brockdorff, are you…leaving?” He stops a couple of paces away and stands there, wide-eyed and uncertain. 

Brockdorff takes a moment to collect himself, turns around, and instantly falls into a pair of guileless brown eyes. How could Peter have ever doubted thatn Paul was his son when they’re so terribly alike? “I’m afraid so, Your Highness.” Brockdorff takes a knee and nods invitingly. Paul runs into his arms without hesitation as Panin makes disapproving faces, which Brockdorff pointedly ignores. 

Eyes closed, temple pressed against Paul’s cheek, he tries to not remember. _Peter teaching Paul how to hold a sword, then a violin. Peter watching Paul from afar with a wistful look – the sort he always got when he wanted something but didn’t think he could have it. Peter and Paul on parade in matching uniforms. Peter—_

“Why must you go?” Paul asks, stepping back. 

“It’s time for me to go home. It wouldn’t do for me to stay here.” 

“But why?” Paul fidgets nervously. Brockdorff doesn’t know how much the boy has been told. Paul knows that his father is dead, he probably doesn’t know all the circumstances but he is smart and observant enough to know something is very wrong in all this. Most of Peter’s friends had been meticulously excluded from Paul’s presence ever since the coup, but even without that, Brockdorff was the only one who consistently went with Peter to see Paul. He has no idea why, but it is true. The only other person who may care enough to get to Paul would be Gudovich, but Andrei is leaving too. So is Semyon Vorontsov, as far as Brockdorff knows. And Liza is too heartbroken to care about _Catherine’s_ child, even if he is Peter’s too. It’s a sad, uncertain picture, reflected entirely on Paul’s face in that moment. No one will make sense of this to him; no one cares enough to try. 

It’s almost enough to make Brockdorff stay. 

But getting himself killed or thrown in prison wouldn’t do Paul of anyone any good. 

“I don’t understand,” Paul presses when Brockdorff doesn’t give him an answer. “Why must you go?” His forehead crumbles in an agitated way, similar to Peter’s squint, and the mere likeness is painful. 

Knowing the expression as a precursor to tears and anger, Brockdorff hurries with an answer. “I was here at your father’s invitation, Pavel Petrovich. That invitation has expired with him.” 

“You Highness, we really __must__ go,” Panin finally pipes up. Brockdorff can hear the anxiety in his voice. _Coward,_ Brockdorff thinks derisively. 

“Will you write?” Paul asks. 

Brockdorff can neither bring himself to lie and get the boy’s hopes up nor to completely shatter them. Because, of course, they would never allow it. He finally settles on, “I will try.” 

Paul nods, somberly, then takes something out of his pocket and proffers it with an air of reverence and importance. 

It is a small, flimsy toy soldier dressed in a Prussian uniform. Probably from one of the cheaper sets that Peter hadn’t used since adolescence. “It was my father’s,” Paul says seriously. “I want you to have it.” 

Brockdorff takes it, suddenly aware that something in his chest is making it hard to breach. He forces a smile for Paul’s sake and nods. “Thank you.” He tucks the little soldier into the inside pocket of his tailcoat and takes Paul’s hands. “Never forget your father,” he says, on a whim. “I know he didn’t…pay as much attention to you as he should have, but he loved you…very much.” Brockdorff doesn’t actually know if it’s true. Peter had never been able to figure out his feelings about Paul. They were messy, inherently linked to Catherine, always uncertain. On some days, he saw Paul as nothing but a menace, on others, he would have died for the boy without a thought. 

Paul nods solemnly. “I won’t forget.” 

It is possible that in saying all this Brockdorff had some ulterior motive; that it rose up from some dark depth of his character which was so used to politics that every decision he males is tainted by that insatiable drive for manipulation and maneuvering. But if that happened, it was completely inadvertent. All Brockdorff is aware of in that moment is the warmth of Paul’s hands in his and that the boy has Peter’s eyes. He pulls Paul into another quick embrace – _I love you, dear boy –_ then lets go of him and stands. “You should go back to your tutor, Your Highness, lest he be upset with you.” 

Paul waves, watching him get into the carriage. “Au revoir!”

Brockdorff waves back as the carriage begins to roll. _Adieu, dear boy._


End file.
